


A Different Kind of Fix

by Clocks



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-11 03:49:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4420091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clocks/pseuds/Clocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik realises that he's getting out of shape, so he decides to join a gym. Unfortunately, no one warned him that the road to health would be littered with grumpy personal trainers, unexpected friends and sneaky telepaths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [健身情缘](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5023987) by [Go_MrCactus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Go_MrCactus/pseuds/Go_MrCactus)



> [Translation into 中文](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5023987) available by [Go_MrCactus](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Go_MrCactus/pseuds/Go_MrCactus)
> 
> Written for [this prompt](http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/9701.html?thread=21242341#t21242341). Title is from a Bombay Bicycle Club album.
> 
> Dedicated to the very lovely [xsilverdreamsx](http://archiveofourown.org/users/xsilverdreamsx/pseuds/xsilverdreamsx) for holding my hand and being such a fantastic beta.

By mutual agreement, Sundays are when Magda comes by the apartment to drop Wanda off for the day. The circumstances of their divorce are amicable enough for Magda to hang around for a chat over coffee while the twins disappear into their own secret little world, and today seems no different at first. As per routine, Erik tells Magda about how Pietro is doing in school, and fends off her gentle reminders to eat better and not overwork himself to death. It’s all par for the course; there’s no way she hasn’t noticed the stacks of frozen pizza cartons in the freezer, or the take-out menus bursting out of his kitchen drawer. His old treadmill, abandoned in a corner of the living room, has somehow been turned into a makeshift clothes-rack for Pietro’s soccer gear.

Erik’s well aware that the signs of neglect (and his snowballing indifference towards housekeeping in general) don’t stop there. The apartment, as always, is littered with all manner of detritus that can only be attributed to a restless 15-year-old with superhuman speed: empty Oreo cartons, broken electronic devices that were never meant to bear the brunt of a 10,000 wpm typing speed, threadbare rugs with well-worn friction lines zigzagging across them. Magda toes at the remains of the kitchen rug with a sort of amused sympathy, and to her credit she doesn’t say a word about the surrounding mess. She probably remembers Pietro in the days before he came to live with Erik: hyperactive, restless, impatient with a world that couldn’t possibly keep up with him.

So all things considered, he and Magda get along swimmingly (while managing a decent stab at this co-parenting business) which is why Erik isn’t that surprised when today Magda hesitantly reaches into her bag, then slides over a pretty pink envelope and tells him, very gently, that she will understand if he’d prefer not to attend.

“Oh,” Erik says, picking it up and sliding out the invitation. He’s met the guy a few times when Magda picks Wanda up after her Sunday visits, has heard even more from Wanda who addresses him as ‘Vadim’ and Pietro as ‘that fuckface’ (out of some misplaced loyalty to Erik). But Vadim seems to treat Magda and Wanda very well, he’s extremely well-to-do and he probably doesn’t have a foot firmly wedged in the closet. It’s more than Erik’s ever been able to give Magda, at least on the last two points.

“I suppose congratulations are in order,” Erik says, and he must really mean it, for Magda’s smiling at him real wide, the way she used to when they were teenagers skipping classes to smoke behind the old school gym. He hugs her and tells her he’ll be there. She nods at her watch and says she must go, and that she’ll pick up Wanda at eight.

He’s still sitting at the kitchen table a long time after she leaves, thoughtfully running a finger over the gilded edges of the invitation. _‘VADIM PASTERNAK AND MAGDA MAXIMOFF REQUEST THE PLEASURE OF YOUR COMPANY…’_ The date is a month away. His eyes trail away towards the refrigerator door in front of him, where Wanda’s recent English essay, graced with a large ‘A+’, is pinned to the door next to Pietro’s pink and angry detention slip. He can hear the twins laughing in Pietro’s bedroom, and wonders what they think about their mother getting remarried.

It’s not as though he’s still carrying a torch for Magda, or harbouring anything else similarly sentimental. It has been six long years since their split, and all things considered, Magda took it reasonably well when told that her husband preferred men.

If Erik wants to be honest with himself, it feels more like he’s being left behind, caught in inertia while everyone else is moving forward with their lives. He can’t remember the last time he pursued a real relationship, or even had a proper date. Casual sex is easy enough to find; he knows where to look if that’s what he’s after. But with age and a rebellious mutant son in tow, he finds himself yearning for warm, steady companionship instead, the unconditional support offered by someone who’d follow him to pick up his kids the way Vadim does for Magda. That’s what he misses most about a committed relationship; the assurance of someone having his back, and letting him rant when he has to go down to the school because Pietro ran his classmate’s underwear up the school flagpole yet again. Erik wants a partner in crime, someone who knows when to soothe him and when to pull his head out of his ass, someone who wakes up next to him in bed and looks at him as more than a very tired engineer and divorced father of two.

For now, though, Erik gets up and walks towards the fridge. With a wave of his hand, two magnets detach themselves from the door, and he lets them pin the invitation to the door in the most visible spot possible, adjusting it until he’s satisfied.

After all, he has a wedding to attend.  
  


* * *

  
A month passes and with work, more overtime and being increasingly called into school because Pietro is driving all his teachers to drink, Erik forgets to get his good suit dry-cleaned despite his best intentions. The day before the wedding, he finally rescues it from the depths of his closet, hoping to find a dry-cleaner still open in downtown Genosha at this time of the evening, but something makes him stop.

The bespoke suit seems a little...narrower than he remembered.

He frowns at it, then shakes off the plastic cover to try it on. He’s confused when his dress pants are quite strained around his hips. With the help of his powers he manages to get the zip up, but the button won’t close. He can’t help but feel worried when even his jacket is too tight around his arms, and he can’t even get the lapels within a few inches of each other.  
Panic is racing through his veins. Has he gained that much weight? What on earth is he going to wear to the wedding?

“Hey Dad, I was wondering-” Pietro’s head peeks around the bedroom door, his eyebrows jumping up when he spots Erik in his suit. “Er, Dad?”

“What is it?” Erik says through his teeth. _Don’t say it, don’t say it._

“Is it me,” Pietro waves his hand about ineffectually, as if searching for a word, “or have you gotten…‘jollier’?”

Erik, who would use every other word in English, Yiddish and German to describe himself except for the word ‘jolly’, is at a loss for a suitable retort. “Go get your sister,” he finally says.

He braces himself for a retort or some smartass comment, but it must be bad because Pietro merely shrugs and disappears in a brief flash. In a few moments Wanda appears at the door, in the midst of texting, but she drops her phone (and her jaw) as she takes in the sight of her dishevelled father. “Dad? Didn’t you use to fit into that?”

“That’s what I thought too.” Erik huffs in frustration, gesturing down at his too-tight suit. “Do you have any ideas?”

Wanda’s eyes are wide. “Dad, I may be able to alter reality, but I can’t alter your pants.”

In the end, Erik’s father comes to the rescue with an old magenta-and-purple suit that hangs a little too large on him, and Pietro whizzes off to pick it up from his grandparents’ place in mere minutes, saving Erik over an hour’s drive. It fits Erik just nicely, even if he has to hold his breath a little when he buttons the jacket. Plus, he likes the colours, and Wanda assures him that he looks relatively dashing as they head out together for the wedding, which is somewhere uptown.

The ceremony goes without a hitch, and Magda looks radiant and happy, smearing Vadim’s face with wedding cake. But, during the reception, Erik can’t stop feeling a little self-conscious about how he looks in his suit, particularly when Magda’s dad nudges him teasingly and puffs out his cheeks before laughing. Erik is more affected by it than he’d like to admit, and it must show because when it’s his turn to dance with Wanda, she rubs his shoulders soothingly. “I hate seeing you so uncomfortable, Dad.”

“I’m fine,” he says automatically."The suit needs a little more... getting used to, that's all."

" _Dad_."

"I'm fine," he repeats, this time stroking her copper-red hair fondly.

He can't help but admit, finally, that Wanda's got a point. Besides being able to finally fit into his suit, he knows that he'd feel more confident about heading back into the dating scene if he’s taking care of himself, both physically _and_ emotionally.

Erik winces a little as he thinks of all the junk food he’s been eating lately, all the beers that have contributed to his soft middle. It’s admittedly a stark contrast to the days where he used to run five miles every morning, and avoid carbs and processed food. He’d felt better then, too, and hadn’t run out of breath after just a few flights of stairs. It would be a long, disciplined climb back to his peak physical condition, but then Erik has always loved a challenge--

"Dad," Wanda whispers urgently, "I think you just popped a button."

Tomorrow, he tells himself with grim determination, will be the start of a new Erik.  
  


* * *

  
The first step Erik takes when he gets home is to toss out everything and anything unhealthy from the fridge and cupboards, much to Pietro’s dismay. Anything non-perishable will be donated to the food bank, but for now, Erik leaves Pietro to mourn their recently departed stack of frozen pizzas and microwavable dinners.

The second step is a little less immediate, but by the time Erik has showered and gotten ready for bed, he’s faced with the grim reality that he will have to look for a gym.

So far, there are two mutant-friendly gyms in Genosha City that Erik is aware of. The first one is the Hellfire Club, which he knows because most of his colleagues - including his boss - have a membership there and enjoy boasting about it. It’s housed in a dark and forbidding standalone building uptown that reeks of exclusivity due to the ‘MUTANTS ONLY’ sign above its entrance. Although Erik is very much on board with non-mutants getting their own taste of segregation for once, he suspects that a highly exclusive clientele also means highly exclusive monthly fees.

The other gym, X-Fitness, seems to be another one of those globo-gym chains with new locations sprouting up all over the country every five minutes or so. The biggest branch is a 15-minute walk from Erik’s office, so Erik decides to pay it a visit during his lunch break instead of heading out with Azazel and Janos. It’s located in a five-storey building tucked away at the east end of Muir Avenue, and a quick scan with his power reveals three deep levels of steel-reinforced basements. Erik idly wonders over their purpose.

On the outside, the entrance is wide and brightly lit, and Erik likes the sleek, polished chrome counter that spans the width of the doorway. Behind it, a tall, African-American man is stacking towels and smiling at someone out of Erik’s line of vision. Ordinarily Erik would smirk at someone dressed in blue and yellow spandex, which seems to be the gym’s uniform, but the guy is fit and muscular enough to pull it off.

His grin broadens when Erik approaches the counter. “Hi, I’m Darwin,” the man says, even though his name tag reads, _'Armando'_ below the X-Fitness logo. “How can I help you?”

“I’m interested in becoming a member,” Erik says. “But first, I was wondering if I could just take a look around the gym. And maybe find out more about membership fees and rates for a personal trainer.”

“Oh yeah, sure. Just give me a sec.” Darwin/Armando goes over to the PA system and pressed a button somewhere, before speaking into the mic: _“Paging for Scott, please report to the info counter now.”_

Erik doesn’t have to wait long until another man approaches the counter, dressed in the same blue-and-yellow spandex uniform along with a black vest that has ‘HEAD TRAINER’ printed across it. He’s a little shorter than Erik, and he’s wearing red-tinted sunglasses and a rather patronising smile. Erik tries not to let his displeasure show on his face: wearing sunglasses indoors is one of his pet peeves, along with idiots who cut in line and people who willingly pay to watch Adam Sandler movies.

“Hi, I’m Scott Summers.” His handshake is a firm grip. “Welcome to X-Fitness, I’ll show you around.”

“Erik Lehnsherr.” With that, Erik has no choice but to fall in beside Scott, who is telling him about how X-Fitness is the first non-segregated gym where mutants and humans can work out side by side and enjoy the world-class facilities. Erik is surprised to learn that there is a heated pool in the basement, as well as a basketball and squash court on the fifth floor and a yoga studio on the fourth. Scott is also enthusiastically going on and on about something called Crossfit, but Erik can’t quite bring himself to care.

The first floor, where they’re currently touring, is home to all the cardiovascular equipment. Erik eyes the rows and rows of treadmills, elliptical machines, stair-climbers and rowing machines. Since it’s lunchtime, the cardio section is only half full. Erik watches a tall, lanky man running on a treadmill nearby, his strides exceptionally long and his feet almost a blur. Upon closer inspection, he realises the man has hands for feet.

Frankly, Erik finds it extraordinary.

The second floor is devoted entirely to strength-training machines that just look like medieval torture devices to Erik, including the assisted pull-up machine where a blue-skinned man is dangling from the machine by his tail, a trainer nearby encouraging him.

“You can let me know if you’re looking to isolate any muscle groups, like your chest, abs….” Scott rambles on and on, making an all-encompassing gesture at the machines.

Erik tries to keep his face straight, despite his inward cringe. Scott seems to be one of those constantly positive, encouraging people that Erik can’t stand, the cheerleaders of the world. If Erik does decide to sign up, he can always inform Darwin/Armando later that he’d like to be assigned to someone a little more no-nonsense.

The third floor is where Erik tunes back in to Scott's words, being a little more familiar with the equipment here: the free weights section. There are racks and racks of dumbbells and barbells sitting alongside Smith machines lined up by the window. Erik spots a youngish guy sitting on a bench who, instead of getting up to grab heavier dumbbells, simply blows on the ones he’s currently holding, crusting them over in ice, before he lies down again to continue his chest presses.

It’s fascinating and intriguing all at once, and Erik could quite see himself becoming a regular here.

“C’mon, I’ll take you upstairs to see the yoga studios,” Scott says, leading Erik towards the stairs. They walk past a segregated area that is lined with mirrors. Along the right wall, there's a shelf with exercise balls and kettlebells, and in front of it, a shirtless man is attacking a punching bag with short, swift strokes, face reddened with exertion as he lets out a huff of air with each hit. Erik is startled when the man twirls around and whacks the bag with a powerful kick, its chain creaking in protest. A few more left jabs, then a sharp right cross before the man swivels around and delivers another devastating roundhouse kick, his thigh muscles rippling with force.

Erik is aware that he should close his mouth, but he can’t.

The man seems to be taking a break for now, shucking his boxing gloves and swiping at his face with the back of his hand. Sweat is streaming down his neck, dripping off darkened chestnut hair which curls below his reddened ears. When he reaches for his water bottle on the nearby shelf, the muscles of his broad, freckled shoulders flex and shift, making Erik’s throat dry. _I’d like some of that water please_ , he thinks. _Preferably from your mouth._

The man takes a long, long pull of water, that gorgeous pale throat flexing as he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. When he’s done, he puts his water bottle back and bends down to collect his gloves, and Erik is presented with the most beautiful, tightly muscled, roundly pert ass he has ever laid his eyes on. Scott is saying something distantly in the background, but Erik doesn’t hear a word because he’s never been sucker-punched in the gut with lust like this, and his brain cells are only good for producing one thought: _What a fantastic ass._

For a moment, the man stiffens a little, but it must have been Erik’s imagination because he’s putting on his gloves again and steadying the punching bag, oblivious to Erik’s blatant ogling.

“C’mon Erik, ready to go?” Scott’s voice finally penetrates Erik’s foggy brain, and Erik nods dumbly as he follows Scott, wondering how fast he can sign up for a membership.


	2. Chapter 2

Joining a gym, Erik realises, is something he never imagined he would have ever looked forward to. Exercise has always fallen under the category of chores for Erik - something necessary but tiresome - like washing the bathroom or meeting Pietro’s teachers. Years ago, when he was in peak physical condition, Erik preferred solitary activities like running and lifting weights at home. But he acknowledges that now he might benefit from a more structured schedule, especially on days he feels overcome by work and lassitude. So he signs the membership forms without a second thought, and goes home feeling really good about himself.

Admittedly, the prospect of getting fit again isn’t all he’s looking forward to. Erik spends the weekend entertaining fleeting thoughts of pale, muscular shoulders, powerful whipcord thighs and deep, curved dimples resting above a plush, round ass. It’s almost embarrassing, given how he hasn’t even _spoken_ to the mystery guy, but the invasive images refuse to dissipate, happily holding his brain hostage.

On Monday, Erik makes his way down to his brand new gym during his lunch hour and spends a half-hearted hour lifting various weights, pretending he isn’t keeping an eye on the segregated area where the punching bags are located. But the area remains disappointingly empty, so Erik leaves after re-racking all the weights with a disinterested wave of his hand.

On Tuesday, he’s walking to the water fountain when he - finally! - spots the object of his ridiculous infatuation in the yoga studio, listening intently with his arms akimbo as the instructor at the front of the class explains something in detail. Erik silently watches him mimicking pose after pose, eyes greedily skimming over that short, compact body _packed_ with muscle and grace. When he bends over in a downward dog pose, Erik’s throat goes dry before he remembers he’s wearing flimsy gym shorts and hurries away.

On Wednesday, Erik spots him chatting with Scott and a younger blond man with a sharp, shrewd gaze, all of them laughing before they head down the staircase leading to the mysterious basements. A while later, there are deep, ominous _booms_ rattling through the building, but none of the other gym members or staff seem particularly alarmed. Erik can sense sharp blasts of heat radiating through the steel walls underground, and wonders what the hell is going on.

On Thursday, Erik is getting in a good run at the cardio section when he senses a Rolex and an x-shaped metal keychain hopping onto the machine next to his, bouncing in a light jog. Risking a quick glance at his new neighbour, Erik almost falls off the treadmill when he realises it’s the attractive kickboxing man, hair flopping into his eyes as he stabs at the ‘increase speed’ button.

Fuckfuckfuck. Erik takes deep, even breaths, maintaining a stride he’s comfortable with.

Now that Erik’s near enough to get a good look, the guy is even more ridiculously attractive up close. Bright blue eyes are fixed on the TV screen above them, one of many mounted along the walls. The CNN anchor must be saying something disagreeable, for the man’s lips are pursed in displeasure, and Erik is immediately drawn to their moist redness. _Perfect for kissing_ , Erik thinks, and suddenly there’s an unbidden image of that red mouth wrapped around his cock, Erik’s fingers encouragingly tangled in waves of dark chestnut hair--

Erik snaps out of his lust-induced haze when his new neighbour suddenly stumbles, the gears in his treadmill stuttering in protest. With a quick wave Erik stabilises the machine, slowing it down enough so that the man can regain his balance. His cheeks are flushed a deep red, endearingly so, and maybe Erik is imagining things, but the corner of his mouth is curved up in a rather flustered, secretive smile.

“Are you alright?” Erik asks, his earphones tucking themselves away with a brush of his fingers.

“Yes, I do apologise if I startled you,” the man says, and Erik blinks in surprise. The British accent is unexpected, sparking a deep warmth in Erik’s stomach. “Your earphones-- that was marvellous. Telekinesis?”

A familiar pride wells up within Erik, just like any other time someone mentions his mutation. “Metal. I can manipulate magnetic fields,” he explains, enjoying the rapt look of fascination on his new friend’s face.

“Extraordinary. This is the first time I’ve seen someone with your mutation.” As if remembering himself, the man sticks out a hand. “Oh sorry, where are my manners? I’m Charles.”

“Erik.” He finds Charles’ grip firm and a little sweaty, but he can’t quite bring himself to care. He’s happy enough to have a name to slap onto his fantasies. “Have you been a member here long?”

“Something like that.” There’s something a little guarded about the way Charles’ eyes shift away from his. “What about you? You’re new, aren’t you?”

Although it’s a clumsy attempt on Charles’ part to change the subject, Erik will shamelessly settle for any excuse to continue this conversation. “Just joined this week, actually.” He pats his stomach a little self-deprecatingly. “It’s about time I got back into shape, anyway.”

Charles’ eyebrows jump up in surprise. “ _Back_ into shape?” His eyes roam up and down Erik’s frame in an appraising manner. “Trust me, my friend, there’s nothing about you that is found wanting.”

Erik doesn’t know what to react to first: the fact that Charles has just called him ‘my friend’, or whether he’s imagining the warm approval in Charles’ voice.

“Flatterer,” Erik says at last, and Charles laughs in reply.  


* * *

 

They grab a drink together at the smoothie bar after their workout, and Charles insists that it’s his treat, in return for Erik saving him from getting mangled by the treadmill. Interestingly enough, Erik doesn’t see any money change hands for the drinks. Then again, it’s probably because the staff all seem to know Charles very well, greeting him by name with wide smiles.

After getting their smoothies, Erik tries not to be annoyed that their conversation is constantly interrupted by people coming up to say hi to Charles, or to thank him for some training tip. Thankfully, it’s tempered by the fact that Erik is enjoying the way Charles’ eyes light up each time he encounters a friend.

Once they’re left alone again, Erik confesses, “It’s been a long while since I last tried to put on muscle. So now I’m just fumbling around with the weights.”

“Do you have a trainer?”

Erik tries to hide his wince. Scott has been calling him for days to try and set up an appointment. “Not yet.”

Charles’ eyebrows are knitted in thought. “Well, if you don’t want a trainer, you could always try Starting Strength? It’s an excellent beginner’s program by Mark Rippetoe, it really helped me when I was--” Here Charles pauses, eyes a little wide, and Erik recognises this as another topic Charles is stepping around, for some reason. “When I was first starting out.”

“And now, look at you.” Erik lets his eyes skim down Charles’ pale, muscular arms, his gaze heavy with appreciation. “It must be very effective.”

Charles’ smile turns just this side of sly, his lower lip tucked beneath his teeth. “Now look who’s the flatterer.”

There’s a pause, where the silence between them feels electrically _charged_ , and Erik can’t quite remember the last time he was this forcefully attracted to someone. He wants to ask for something - a number, an email address, a last name - but someone is striding up to Charles now and tapping him on the shoulder.

“ _Hé mec_ , I’ve been looking all over for you.” The man is as tall as Erik, with shoulder-length hair and deep red eyes. He holds up a pack of poker cards. “Practice was twenty minutes ago?”

“My apologies, Remy. I forgot the time,” Charles says, before turning to Erik regretfully. “Listen, I have to run. But I’ll catch you around another time?”

“Sure.” Erik ignores the sinking disappointment in his gut, skewering this Remy fellow with the best glare he can muster. “I’ll see you around, Charles.”

Turning to wipe away his grimace with his towel, Erik is about to head for the showers when he hears Charles calling him. “Erik! I forgot to tell you something.” Charles jogs up to him, Remy waiting somewhere behind. “If you want a trainer - a _good_ one - you should try Logan. He’s not the head trainer but...I think both of you might be very suited for each other.”

“Logan,” Erik repeats, thinking of the airport in Boston. “All right, I’ll think it over.”

“Marvellous. See you!” Charles jogs back towards a waiting Remy, and Erik stalls a little just to appreciate the view from behind.  


* * *

 

It’s been a few days since his first conversation with Charles, and Erik has been admittedly looking forward to bumping into him again. However, their timing must be off because he either catches Charles only as he’s leaving, or when he is in the midst of doing something else, apparently in huge demand.

Today, he spots Charles standing in a soundproof room with a tall ginger kid and a slender woman trimly dressed in the blue-and-yellow gym uniform. Erik has no idea what they’re doing; Charles is pointing at his throat and explaining something to the ginger kid, and all three of them are wearing ear muffs.

Erik signs in at the counter and tells Darwin he has an appointment with Logan. “Just hang on a sec, I’ll call for him,” he tells Erik, before attending to someone else. In the meantime, Erik idly watches other members trickling in. There’s a tall, white-haired woman striding in with a yoga mat tucked under her arm, and behind her waddles a stockish, toad-like man who startles Erik when his tongue zaps out and snatches one of the towels on the counter.

Erik doesn’t have to wait long before a guy is striding out of the PT office, clutching a clipboard and looking all kinds of pissed off. He’s a little taller than Erik, hair styled into two lupine tufts, and his arms are absolutely _ripped_ , bulging with muscle. “You Lehnsherr?” he asks gruffly, gesturing towards Erik with his clipboard. As Erik nods, the man offers his hand for a gruff shake. “Logan. Follow me.”

They proceed to a little alcove near the information counter, where Darwin is talking on the phone, giving Logan a distracted wave. There is an odd machine there that looks like a weighing scale, albeit with a handle sticking out at each side. It reminds Erik of the electric scooter Janos rides to work.

“Before we begin, I just want to give you a warning,” Logan says, folding his impressive arms across his equally impressive chest. “I know Chuck recommended me to you, but I run a really tight ship. Are you prepared to work your ass off?”

 _Chuck?_ Erik assumes he’s referring to Charles. “I’m prepared to do anything it takes,” Erik says, tilting his chin up. He’s been through a divorce and has raised two precocious mutant children; “working his ass off” in the gym is nothing.

“Good.” Logan’s broad shoulders relax a little. “I’ve had many clients quit on me, and even one who threatened to sue. So don’t say I didn’t warn ya, bub.”

Fair enough. Logan’s curt, direct approach would be bound to upset some people (like the Scotts of the world) but Erik appreciates his no-nonsense style. Erik nods, so Logan sets down the clipboard and starts asking Erik questions about his lifestyle. “You a mutant?” Logan asks, and he looks suitably impressed when Erik floats his pen away from his grip. “Cool, Jean will be happy to know there’s another telekinetic.”

“No, just metal,” Erik corrects him, and Logan nods while ticking off the ‘Others’ box and writing ‘metalokinetic’. “What about you?”

Logan only grins widely at Erik before holding up a clenched fist, and Erik watches with interest as three large bone claws emerge from between his hairy knuckles. “Imagine if they were made of metal,” he quips, which makes Logan snort.

He takes Erik’s measurements too, and makes Erik step onto that weird scooter-scale. “Make sure you grip the handles real tight,” Logan reminds him. “So the machine can analyse your body fat and muscle mass.”

“Exceptional,” Erik says dryly, and Logan shoots him a suspicious glance as though he isn’t sure whether Erik is joking.

The numbers are not as dire as Erik expected, although his body fat percentage is a little too high for his comfort. “Twenty-three percent ain’t bad at all,” Logan says. “Just focus on getting that down with diet and exercise.”

“Which is more important?” Erik asks, because having a great metabolism in his twenties meant not paying that much attention to what he ate.

“Decreasing food intake is 90% of weight loss.” Logan scribbles something down on the clipboard. “However, it doesn’t mean I don’t want to see your ass in the gym everyday so don’t think you can slack off. Keep a food log for the next five days, then give it to me at our next session.”

“You want me to record _everything_ I eat?” Erik asks incredulously.

“If it goes into your mouth, I want it written down,” Logan says, before he nods at someone behind Erik. “Speaking of which, how’s it going, Chuckles?”

Erik is still a little confused until he turns around and Charles is standing behind him, his ear muffs now dangling around his neck. He’s wearing a grey Genosha U sweatshirt today, his hair a little tousled. Erik’s fingers itch to tuck a few errant curls back into place. “Logan, I told you I’m not too fond of your nicknames,” he says a little reproachfully, before he smiles up at Erik. “Is he giving you a hard time? I told him to be nice.”

“Hey, I’m nice,” Logan says, deadpan, but Erik ignores him in favour of watching a droplet of sweat run down Charles’ throat, pooling in the little groove above his clavicles.

“I can hardly believe that, my friend,” Charles says with a laugh, and Erik ignores the frissure of displeasure in his chest. Why should he care who else Charles calls his ‘friends’?

And wait, did Logan make some quip earlier that Erik had missed? Something about his mouth, and Charles?

“We’ll see whether Lehnsherr follows the instructions I set out for him,” Logan says. “Lots of cardio, lots of weights, lots of protein.”

“I don’t quite know how I’ll fit all that in,” Erik tells Charles honestly. “Maybe I can start going for a run in the evenings, after my son gets home from his grandparents’. Or wherever he’s committing minor misdemeanours.”

“Your son?” Charles’ eyes dip down to Erik’s bare ring finger. “Ah, divorced?”

Erik nods. “I’m the proud single father of two possibly deranged mutant teenagers.”

“Not that I’m not enjoying this Care-and-Share Hour,” Logan says sourly, “But Lehnsherr’s on the clock with me and I still need to kick his ass at the weights area.”

Charles is now a little flushed, offering Logan an apologetic smile. “Right, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I shall leave it to you then.” Before he turns to leave, he grips Erik’s wrist. “Actually, I could use a run in the evenings as well, and I’ve been looking for a running partner. Maybe I could join you, on some days?”

A list of questions runs through Erik’s head like a freight train. _You want to run with **me**? Which neighbourhood do you live in? What do you do for a living? Are you a mutant?_ But the questions fade away in light of Charles’ hopeful smile, the warm grip of his hand around Erik’s wrist. He nods, once.

“Excellent.” Then Charles is letting go, reaching into his wallet and pulling out a card.

_Charles F. Xavier, PhD_  
_Director of Admissions and Student Affairs_  
_Faculty of Mutant Studies_  
_Genosha University_

When Erik turns the card over, there’s a cell phone number messily scribbled across the back.

“Please do call me,” Charles says, and Erik feels a slight pressure on the small of his back, as though Charles has just pressed his hand there for a fleeting moment. After he leaves, Erik forces himself to stop staring at the card and tucks it into his pocket, before realising Logan is now grinning at him from ear to ear.

“Like I always told that chump Summers, being at the gym is better than watching TV.” Logan shoves himself off the counter, putting aside the clipboard and fishing out a stopwatch from his pocket. “Enough flirting, Lehnsherr, some of us have actual work to do.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this installment took a long time! The next chapter should be up very soon. Also, I think this will be longer than 4 chapters. /o\

  
The first two weeks are the hardest. Erik has to constantly push himself to make the right food choices, especially when Pietro is demanding pizza for dinner, or when Erik is too tired after work to cook something healthy. At least going to the gym requires less effort, since he has standing appointments with his trainer every Tuesday and Friday. "It gets easier," Logan promises, solemnly watching Erik's form as he struggles with his overhead presses. "It'll take three weeks for somethin' to become a habit."

"Can't come soon enough," Erik says through gritted teeth. Two more reps to go.

"You're already progressin' quite nicely." Logan glances down at Erik's training log, the corner of his mouth reluctantly curved up in approval. Then he looks up with a slight frown. "Unless you're cheatin', or something. Do I need to start lookin' for concrete weights?"

"Don't be an idiot." Reaching for his water bottle, Erik floats the dumbbells over to place them back on the rack, since it's his last set. "Why should I pay you an exorbitant amount of money just to cheat myself?"

"It's normal to want to try and impress...other people." Logan's eyes flicker over to the kickboxing section, where Erik is steadfastly refusing to allow himself to look. "I just wanted to be sure."

"I'm doing this for myself," Erik says firmly. He doesn't care if Logan isn't convinced, because it's true, and the reason Erik's been pushing himself so hard is because he knows exactly what he is capable of. He wants to be able to look in the mirror again and be proud of what he sees. He's done it before, and he can do it again.

Logan is still looking carefully at him, but at least the frown between his eyebrows has disappeared. "Fair enough," he concedes, seemingly appeased. "Now, since you're so big on doin' things for yourself, let's squeeze out one more set. 60 pounds this time."

Erik groans.  
  
  


* * *

  
Charles is upside down.

From Erik's new perspective he looks like perfection in reverse: a strong chin on top and straight white teeth bared in a grin, followed by flushed cheeks, the roundest of noses and bright, mischievous eyes. "C'mon, get up," Charles is saying as he jogs in place, towering over a groaning Erik. "You can't just _lie_ there."

"I'm not." And really, Erik isn't. He's just _resting_ a while, that's all.

"People are looking." Charles seems to be scanning the rest of the park, which is quite crowded at this time in the evening. Erik can sense a variety of keychains, smartphones and car keys floating past them, no doubt belonging to other joggers, people walking their dogs or office workers cutting through the park for a shortcut home.

"I don't care." Erik really doesn't, because his legs still feel like jelly after a string of increasingly agonizing sessions with Logan this week. If he were a lesser man, he would have begged off his twice-weekly evening run with Charles. But this would mean missing out on an opportunity to spend more time with Charles, and that was completely unacceptable.

Their running sessions have been...interesting, to say the least. He still sees Charles at the gym, but their runs are when he has Charles' undivided attention, and it's addictive. Charles is easy to talk to, yet strangely guarded at the same time. Erik still doesn't know what Charles' mutation is, and to be honest, he can't imagine anyone not being proud of their mutation, or at least being open about it. Sometimes he wants to come right out and just _ask_ Charles, but he figures they need to cross over the threshold of acquaintanceship first.

It's exhilarating, this burgeoning friendship with Charles. Erik's perception of him shifts with every new revelation, like colours changing with every twist of the kaleidoscope. Charles has gone from being an object of Erik's lust and infatuation to...someone dependable, endlessly encouraging and wickedly funny. Someone more real.

"Stop woolgathering." Charles' nudge at his left sneaker inconveniently reminds Erik he's still sprawled out on the grass in the middle of Muir Park. But at least Charles has stopped jogging in place, and his smile has softened somewhat as he gazes down at Erik. "Another three kilometers and we can call it a day."

Erik throws an arm over his eyes. "No dice."

"Honestly, Erik." Although he now can't see Charles' expression, he can hear the fond exasperation in it. "All right, another 2K at least?"

"Nope, not happening." In a moment of sudden clarity, Erik sees where his mother insists that Pietro takes after him.

"I won't allow you to just give up, my friend. We're going to finish another 2K," Charles says firmly. "Get up and run with me, and I'll get you a latte afterwards. My treat."

Erik shakes his head.

Charles makes a contemplative noise. "How about a beer?"

"Tempting." Erik removes his arm. "But Logan says beer's not allowed on my diet plan."

"Nothing laden with calories, then," Charles muses, his lips pursed. "Well, how about a kiss?"

Erik scrambles to his feet so fast that he gets dizzy, but Charles is laughing and already jogging down the path, disappearing into the crowd of people and making Erik wonder if he'd heard him correctly earlier.

After their run, Charles acts as though he'd said nothing unusual, and Erik's disappointment burns at the back of his throat. "I'll see you tomorrow at the gym?" Charles rests a hand on Erik's shoulder, and he nods as they part ways.

The warmth of Charles' touch lingers, much like the promise in the depths of Erik's mind.  
  
  


* * *

  
Surprisingly, as Logan promised, it does get easier for Erik. Exercise becomes an automatic impulse in Erik's daily life, as thoughtless as brushing his teeth or taking a shower. It helps that he's starting to see the results too. To his delight, his pants are starting to get looser, and he's had to change the notches on his belt a few times. His shirts are also getting a little tight around the shoulders, which are due to what Logan calls ‘newbie gains', and the veins running down his arms are starting to be far more visible.

Of course, Erik is aware that his initial achievements are due to the incredible support he has in his life. Wanda is his biggest cheerleader, sending him daily motivational texts and commenting loudly on his progress when she sees him every Sunday. And although Pietro makes a show of complaining a lot and sneaking boxes of snacks into the apartment, he at least keeps them out of sight in his room (stacked next to the pinball machine that Erik does _not_ want to know about).

Magda has noticed too, her eyes widening in surprise whenever she comes to pick Wanda up. "You've lost weight," she says admiringly, patting Erik's flatter stomach. "Trying to return to your former days of glory?"

"‘Former'? I'm insulted." Erik flexes an arm on the pretext of fixing his hair, sending both Magda and Wanda into giggles.

Even Erik's co-workers are supportive, Azazel spamming him with several articles from Bodybuilding.com in between work emails while Janos offers him a deal on buying protein powder in bulk and Emma tries to get him into the cult of juicing. Erik is listening to one of her spiels in the pantry, sipping his black coffee and waiting for Janos to finish brewing his _yerba maté_ when Emma suddenly trails off, her gaze settling on someone behind Erik. "Good morning, sugar," she says flirtatiously, and Erik tries not to groan. There is only one person that Emma ever uses that saccharine tone with.

"Ah, it's a party." Shaw is striding into the pantry, clutching his ‘WORLD'S BEST BOSS' mug in one hand, and what seems to be a stick of butter in the other. "What are all of you talking about before I so rudely interrupted?"

"The benefits of green smoothies," Emma replies, leaning in conspiratorially towards Shaw. "Erik's on a health kick now, so I was telling him that he should have one every day for breakfast."

"Oh really?" Shaw is making himself a cup of black coffee, then stirring in globs of butter, much to Erik's disgust. "I myself swear by the powers of bulletproof coffee," he says, gesturing towards his greasy mug. "You should try it sometime, Erik. It gives me energy after biking to the office."

"Maybe," Erik says, because he doesn't want to offend Shaw this close to the company's review season.

"Anyway, I heard you joined the gym." Shaw gives Erik an appraising gaze as he sips his disgusting coffee. "It's definitely paying off, you look great."

"Thank you." Erik glances at his watch, and Janos' steel mug starts to rattle with Erik's impatience.

"How is it I haven't seen you at Hellfire yet?" Shaw asks with a frown. "I could have gotten you a better rate, you know."

"That's because he didn't join Hellfire," Emma says sweetly. "He joined X-Fitness."

The silence in the pantry is deafening. "The one full of humans?" Shaw looks unusually dismayed for a man used to drinking buttered coffee.

"Yes, that one." For some reason, Erik feels oddly defensive. Daily visits to his gym must have forged a sense of attachment to the place, making him think of it as a second home. Hellfire's forbidding exteriors feel cold in contrast to the personal touch of X-Fitness: Darwin, Logan, Angel, even Scott.

And of course, Charles, who befriends everyone regardless of whether they're mutant or human, who offers so much of his personal time despite having a job and his own training goals.

"If you ever change your mind," Shaw says, the offer clear in his voice. He still looks perplexed, as though he can't fathom why Erik would choose a supposedly inferior option over a clearly superior one.

Janos has finally finished making his tea, so Erik says, "No I won't, but thanks." He walks out of the pantry with Janos in silence, wondering how different it might have been if he'd indeed joined the Hellfire Club against his better instincts. The idea of missing out on Logan's gruff tutelage - or even worse, Charles' warm, steady encouragement - makes something in Erik's stomach lurch.

"That was scary," Janos says, when they're a safe distance away. "I can't believe you sassed Sebastian."

"What else was I supposed to say?" Erik rolls his eyes before sighing. "So much for not offending Shaw."

"See, this is why I don't talk," Janos says smugly, and Erik concedes that maybe he has a point.

 

* * *

  
Logan, having despaired over Erik's erratic food log, decides to introduce Erik to the wonderful concept of Meal Prep Sundays. "You should do all your meal plannin' for the week, then cook up the whole batch on Sundays," Logan says after their session on Friday, handing Erik a sample meal plan. "Portion out the food, freeze it all, then reheat whatever you need at mealtimes. You do all the work on Sundays and save yourself a whole buncha grief."

"But Sundays are for spending time with my kids," Erik protests.

Logan gives him a faintly exasperated look that is starting to become really familiar. "Then do this shit together with them. Stop findin' excuses, Lehnsherr."

So that's how Erik finds himself at Trader Joe's on a Saturday, armed with a very long shopping list and a bored Pietro who keeps dashing off to retrieve items that appeal to his incorrigible sweet tooth. The supermarket is full of college students stocking up on Red Bull and beer, because the largest branch also happens to be the one close to Genosha U. Erik is directing his cart with an outstretched hand and his powers, idly wondering if he should get some of Wanda's favourite salt-and-vinegar chips since she'll be with him tomorrow. Pietro has zapped off to another aisle, probably to get something loaded with sugar that Erik won't get for himself.

"Erik?"

He turns around immediately, heart in his throat when he spots Charles by the dairy section, a carton of almond milk in his hands. Charles is beaming as he strides over, clearly delighted. Behind him is a stunning, blue-skinned woman with sleek red hair and a matching dress. Her expression is one of poorly contained amusement.

"This is a surprise." Erik can't think of anything better to say. The first two things that popped into his mind - ‘What are you doing here?' and ‘Is this your girlfriend?' - are both needless and therefore inappropriate.

"An utterly pleasant one," Charles says, before turning to the blue woman. "This is my sister, Raven. Raven, this is Erik Lehnsherr."

"Nice to finally meet you," Raven says as they shake hands, and there's a speculative gleam in her golden eyes as she gives him a onceover. Erik realises he is being checked out. "You're the metal guy, right?"

"Guilty as charged." Erik lifts a hand, and a conga line of canned peaches sail into the air, dancing merrily and making Raven laugh, while nearby patrons stare in awe. Charles' expression is one of wonder and admiration, his gaze lingering on Erik's hands. If it's possible, the harsh fluorescent lights of the supermarket make his eyes even more blue than they already are.

"That's amazing," Raven says sincerely as Erik sends the cans back to their shelves. "I saw you do that once at the gym with the dumbbells."

Erik frowns. "Oh? I don't think I've seen you there before." He would have remembered someone so remarkable.

Raven's smile is sly. "What about now?" Suddenly the blue scales on her body flicker all over, transforming her into a peachy blonde girl that Erik has vaguely remembered seeing at the weights section before.

If this is her mutation, Charles' gift must be equally astounding, whatever it is. "Remarkable," Erik breathes out, as the scales flicker back to her normal self.

Charles peers into Erik's cart. "Were you afraid Trader Joe's was going to run out of frozen chicken?"

Grinning, Erik reaches into his pocket and passes Logan's shopping list to Charles. "I'm trying out this asinine thing Logan suggested called Meal Prep Sundays," he explains, as both Charles and Raven nod in recognition. "You guys do it too?"

"Charles does, if he has enough time on Sundays," Raven says. "I can't be bothered, because I eat junk food most of the time."

"It's not that difficult, once you make it a routine." Charles nods at Erik's full cart. "You might want to cut back on the biscuits and the other sugary stuff, though, unless you're very intent on giving yourself diabetes."

"That's not mine," Erik says, at the same time as a white blur dashes up to the cart and slam-dunks in five bars of organic chocolate clusters.

"I'm gonna get Wanda's chips," Pietro tells Erik, before he notices Charles and Raven standing there. "Dad, you have friends? You didn't tell me you had friends."

"You must be Pietro," Charles says with a laugh. "I'm Charles Xavier, this is my sister Raven."

Pietro stares at Charles with wide eyes. "You're the one who goes running with my dad every week."

"This is nice," Raven says dryly. "It seems everyone's heard of everybody."

"We'd better move along, we're blocking the aisle," Charles says, and for some reason there are two spots of colour high on his cheeks. "Pietro, I must hear more about your fascinating powers."

"Powers? What powers? What are you talking about?" Pietro says in jest as he and Charles stroll ahead, and Erik watches them for a little while. His reverie is broken when someone starts pushing his cart, and he realises Raven is grinning widely at him.

"I'm sure you've noticed Charles has a way with people." Raven releases the cart once Erik has taken over again with his powers, falling into step beside him.

Erik can't help remembering how he'd mouthed off to Shaw, despite his best intentions. "He really does," he eventually says, hating how much he is revealing of himself with that simple statement, but Raven's only smiling as though she fully understands.

In truth, grocery shopping rarely takes up an hour for Erik, who is always meticulously economical with his time. But shopping alongside Charles and Raven lends a social element to it, and astonishingly, Pietro and Charles seem to be getting on like a house on fire. Erik knows he's doomed when he overhears Pietro saying, "You should _totally_ come by and help us with meal prep tomorrow, you can meet Wanda," and Charles raises his eyebrows at Erik, as if to ask for his assent. Of course Erik nods, because he's not heartless.

Once they're all done shopping, Raven joins the shortest queue possible while Charles ducks away to a nearby shelf, calling out, "I just need something, hang on." But when it's nearing their turn and Charles is not back yet, Erik is sent to look for him, scanning the aisles for the familiar metal signature of Charles' Rolex.

He finds Charles in the Tea and Coffee aisle, standing on his tip-toes and straining for a bag of Fairtrade something on the top shelf just beyond his reach. "Bloody-- ugh," he hears Charles mumbling under his breath.

"Let me." Erik's voice startles Charles as he gets on his toes and yanks down the rooibos tea Charles wanted, and his momentary triumph is dwarfed by the fact that his new position means Charles' back is now pressed against his chest, and Erik finds his nose buried in mint-shampoo-scented hair. Arousal roars through him like fire, taking his common sense hostage. At this angle, the freckles on the back of Charles' neck crowd his vision, and Erik has a very, very clear mental image of his tongue laving at the brown flecks, inhaling the warm scent of Charles' skin.

" _Oh_." Charles sounds a little broken, and this sends a shiver through Erik as he steps away, mumbling his apologies. The image is still stuck in his mind, as though someone has put up a giant billboard and refused to move it. Despite his best efforts, Erik just can't will it away.

As they head back to the check-out counter in silence, Erik briefly wonders how he'll survive Meal Prep Sunday tomorrow, with Charles and the twins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be NSFW.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this took longer than expected (due to a work trip)!

 

Sunday morning is spent vacuuming and wiping and scrubbing and cleaning, because Erik is not too keen on giving Charles the impression that he and Pietro live in some kind of human pigsty. Wanda arrives sometime mid-morning, swanning in with a large H&M shopping bag and only offering Erik a madonna-like smile when he casually inquires after its contents. But at least she pitches in to help clean, and progress limps along a little faster with three pairs of hands instead of two.

Erik has just finished vacuuming the newish living room rug - the fifth he’s bought this year, thanks to Pietro - when the doorbell rings, and the three of them suddenly straighten up, meerkat-like. “Think that’s your _friend_ , Dad,” Pietro says with a smirk, and he’s right, because Erik easily pings the familiar signature of Charles’ Rolex and his gym keychain outside the door. The twins hurry off to tidy themselves - and gossip, no doubt - while Erik checks his hair in the hallway mirror, pleasantly surprised by how much better he looks these days. He’s standing straight instead of slouching, and it makes him look leaner, straighter. The fitted black polo-tee and khakis he’s wearing look good on him too, both of which had been rather tight a month ago.

Striding towards the door, he unlocks it with a flick of his hand and swings it open. It’s indeed Charles, bright and beaming. Erik’s greeting dies in his throat, because if he thought he’d looked good earlier, Charles clearly has him beaten, hands down.

Since Erik is used to seeing Charles in t-shirts, tracksuits and other gym paraphernalia, it’s pleasantly jarring to see him in smart casualwear instead, like something he’d wear to the office on Fridays. Charles has on a light blue oxford with the sleeves rolled up (revealing deliciously freckled forearms), and the shirt goes impeccably well with his fitted dark jeans and leather brogues. His hair is a little more carefully styled than usual, swept to the side and held in place with a touch of pomade. His expression, however, is what makes Erik’s pulse race: it’s suffused with genuine pleasure at meeting Erik again, his eyes bright and appreciative as they give Erik a brief onceover.

“Am I early? I come bearing gifts.” Charles holds up a few Whole Foods grocery bags, and Erik can see the tip of a bottle of Merlot peeking out.

Erik manages to find his voice. “Just in time,” he says, stepping aside to let Charles in and secretly marvelling over Charles’ crisp attire.

Oblivious to Erik’s ogling, Charles is looking around the apartment with a hum of approval, his gaze hovering over the family photos mounted on the walls. Erik can see Charles lingering over a few choice ones: Erik’s parents proudly posing in front of the deli they own uptown, Wanda holding aloft the trophy she’d won with her robotics team, Pietro sandwiched between his parents at his _bar mitzvah_.

As if on cue, the twins march out of Pietro’s bedroom arm-in-arm, marginally tidier and with angelic expressions that immediately evoke a spike of wary suspicion in Erik. “Hey man, glad you could come.” Pietro warmly claps Charles on the shoulder in welcome, before gesturing towards his sister. “This is Wanda.”

“Like two peas in a pod,” Charles says with an amused glint in his eyes, and Wanda titters with laughter. It’s clearly a joke, since there is barely a shred of physical resemblance between the twins. Red and white hair, differently-coloured eyes. At most they share Erik’s height, maybe, and Magda’s proud chin.

“Pete says you’re the one who goes running with Dad every week.” It seems Wanda has also inherited Erik’s directness. “Thank you, y’know. For encouraging him to keep it up.”

Charles waves her away. “I understand from experience how tough it is to go it alone.” His eyes land on Erik’s, blue and unsettling. “He won’t have to be alone again.”

It’s horrendously difficult to wrench his gaze away, but Erik forces himself to before he babbles something sentimental in front of his kids. He stalks to the kitchen, looking for something to distract him from the jackhammering of anxiety in his chest. He settles on unpacking the groceries Charles has brought along with him, absently aware of the laughter and chatter filtering in from the living room. At least the twins are keeping their guest occupied.  


* * *

 

It’s easier for Erik to relax once they start prepping and cooking in earnest. With the ingredients they procured from Trader Joes’ yesterday, Erik sets out to make roast chicken with vegetables and a giant pot of chili, all of which will be divided into lunches and dinners for five days. Charles had advised on leaving two days free at first, just in case Erik gets sick of the food or gets a hankering for take-out. “I was overly ambitious when I first started doing meal prep,” Charles says regretfully as he helps Wanda fish out cans of tomatoes from the cupboards. “Raven and I could only stomach teriyaki salmon for so long, and after the fifth day, we gave up and went out for pizza. Unfortunately, we still had a five day supply of salmon.”

“What did you do?” Wanda asks.

“Had to throw it out eventually, to make space in the freezer.” The cavalier way Charles says this makes Erik wince; Erik has never quite forgotten the scarcity of his childhood, where his parents had always pretended they weren’t hungry so he could have enough. It has made him incapable of wasting food, or leaving anything on his plate. _Hence the problem,_ Erik thinks with a frown, glancing down at his abdomen. It’s considerably flatter since he started going to the gym, at least, but the vain part of him wants to go back to how he was before. And he can’t do that by hoarding food or eating everything he wants without a thought.

Erik makes himself concentrate on summoning the various pots and pans from the cupboards, along with knives and bowls. Wanda goes to grab the few non-metallic equipment required: chopping boards, a garlic peeler and the stack of plastic containers they’ll be storing the food in. Pietro is engrossed in his phone, as usual, occasionally looking up to show Wanda or Charles something cool.

“So how do you need us to help, Erik?” Charles has his arms akimbo, and fuck if that doesn’t make his forearm muscles stand out even more. Now Erik remembers why he has a thing for rolled-up sleeves. “Do you need us to start chopping?”

“Help me wash the vegetables, I’ll take care of the chopping,” Erik instructs, and Wanda, who is already familiar with the routine, shows Charles what to do. The washed produce is laid out on the chopping boards, and Erik raises his hands like a conductor before an orchestra. The knives float into the air, and soon there is a symphony of chopping and dicing and slicing.

Maybe Erik is enjoying a little too much how Charles’ mouth hangs open as he watches Erik in barely concealed admiration. “Extraordinary,” Charles murmurs, eyes wide with wonder, and Erik feels ridiculously heady with power and something unnamed he isn’t quite ready to examine yet.  
  


* * *

   
Lunch is the leftovers from meal prep, along with some bread Erik has in his pantry and the wine Charles brought (and grapefruit juice for the twins, despite their pleas). It’s still a little surreal, having Charles in his _house_ , sitting at his _table_ and talking to Erik’s _kids_. Only a month ago, Erik was ogling him from afar and wondering what his name was. Today, Charles is explaining the admissions process for the Mutant Studies program to Wanda and Pietro, in case they’re interested in applying once they’re older and out of high school. Wanda’s leaning forward in interest, her face half-shielded by a curtain of red hair, and although Pietro looks a lot more lazy and relaxed, all sprawled out in his seat with his leg propped up on his knee, his eyes are sharp with interest as he listens to Charles talking about Genosha U.

And Erik….Erik simply watches Charles as he drains his second glass of Merlot. When Charles is talking about something he is endlessly passionate about, his voice gets warmer, his speech faster and his gestures more animated. Charles has lovely hands, broad and strong and square, blunt fingers jabbing the air to emphasise a point. Erik has watched those hands trash punching bags and easily wrap around weights that Erik is just starting to be able to handle. He’s also seen the gentle side of them, patient and steady with the many people at the gym that Charles has seemingly taken under his wing. Again he’s curious: Charles doesn’t seem to be a trainer or an employee, so why do those people seek his tutelage?

“Dad,” Wanda says, and Erik blinks in sudden awareness of everyone now looking his way. The warning tone in her voice indicates that she may have repeated herself a few times. “You okay?”

“Yeah, sorry. Just tired.” Erik makes a show of stretching a little, and is unreasonably gratified by the way Charles’ gaze gets drawn to his arms. _Thank you Logan for the hours of bicep curls you insisted on,_ Erik thinks in gratitude.

“Anyway, this is for you.” Wanda retrieves the H&M shopping bag she brought earlier, handing it over to a surprised Erik. “I know you mentioned your current shirts don’t fit so well anymore, so I got you this.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Erik says in a half-scolding, half-pleased tone as he shakes out the fabric. It’s a dark purple cotton blend, and he already likes it without having tried it on.

“A little reward of sorts, for all your hard work.” Wanda is grinning from ear to ear. But at the mention of a ‘reward’, Erik’s eyes dart over to Charles, thoughts ringing with the glossed-over promise of a kiss after jogging.

However, Charles isn’t looking at him. His head is tipped down a little, cheeks slightly and inexplicably flushed. Maybe it’s the wine.

“Go try it on,” Pietro suggests. “If it looks good I’m making Wanda get me one too.”

“For what?” Wanda scoffs. “You actually have to _do_ something to get a reward, dummy.”

They continue squabbling over nothing, and Charles shoots them an amused glance before asking Erik, “Along the way, could you show me where the bathroom is?”

“Of course, right this way.”  
  


* * *

   
The shirt fits Erik remarkably well, which means Wanda must have enlisted Magda’s help to go shopping for him. Erik examines his reflection in the full-length mirror, more than pleased at how trim the shirt makes him look.

Sounds of water running from the ensuite behind him remind him of Charles’ presence, and for a moment Erik wonders if there is time to quickly change back. However, it’s too late as the door swings open and Charles steps out, wiping his hands on his handkerchief and looking quite refreshed. “Oh!” he exclaims when he spots Erik, impossibly blue eyes widening as they drag down Erik’s torso with heavy appreciation. “You look bloody marvellous.”

If Charles’ voice sounds a little hoarse, Erik does not mention it. “Wanda’s got quite the fashionable eye,” he says as flippantly as he can. In the reflection of the mirror, he can see Charles putting away his handkerchief, his eyes fixed on Erik’s waist.

“It’s you who looks good, my friend, not the shirt.” The laughter in Charles’ voice is obvious, the corner of his lips lifting in a smile. Now his gaze is turning speculative. “Turn around, would you?”

Erik does as he’s told, watching Charles in the mirror as he attempts to straighten the sleeves and the shoulder seams. Charles also starts smoothing down the wrinkles in the shirt, and Erik takes in a shaky breath when he can feel the warmth of Charles’ palms through the fabric.

With Charles standing so near, he gets a whiff of Charles’ cologne, something woody and expensive, and Erik’s eyes flutter shut. He doesn’t know if he can control himself in such close proximity, the tiny knot of heat in his chest spreading out in a warm glow. Charles makes a low, honeyed ‘mmmm’ of approval, and it makes Erik’s skin prickle with want.

“Better,” Charles almost whispers, and when Erik opens his eyes, Charles is standing so much closer, similar to how they had been in the supermarket yesterday. Only this time, they aren’t in public, and Charles’ hands have already lingered on Erik for much longer than necessary. “You should tuck it in to get the full effect.”

Erik gives Charles a _look_ , which only earns him a sly smile in return so Erik pretends to let out a sigh and starts tucking in the shirt. Instantly he looks neater and more put-together, but he’s not quite paying attention to himself. He’s watching Charles watch his hands, slipping under the waistband of his khakis to tuck in fabric.

“You missed a part,” Charles points out a little too eagerly, and Erik sucks in a breath as Charles tucks away the bit of shirt that’d been sticking out. Charles’ hand partially sliding under his waistband makes Erik far too aware that if he doesn’t remove his hand, he’d find something else of Erik’s sticking out.

“It was good of Wanda to get me a reward,” Erik says with measured casualness. Charles is just watching him, eyes heavy and intent. “I believe I’m owed another reward, though.”

“Oh?” Charles’ eyebrows jump up in curiosity, and Erik is so tempted to smooth his thumbs over them. Charles has such expressive eyebrows, and Erik can tell so much of what he’s feeling with a mere quirk. “What reward?”

“Someone promised me a kiss if I finished my run,” Erik says. “I still haven’t gotten it yet, you know.”

The “oh” Charles emits now is more exhaled breath than anything else, his hands wavering before they land on Erik’s waist. Now he’s looking up at Erik, somewhat tentative and cocky and smug all at once in a way only Charles can manage. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?”

“Right.” Erik eliminates the remaining few inches between them by hooking a finger in the waistband of Charles’ jeans and dragging him closer. “A promise is a promise.”

“Right.” Charles echoes. He’s licking his lips and making them even redder, and Erik wonders how soft and plush they must feel.

Time to find out.

He leans down at the same time Charles gets on his tip toes to meet Erik’s mouth halfway, and Charles’ lips are indeed unfairly softer and plusher than Erik could have ever imagined. The past few weeks of lusting from afar rush into Erik’s head, and he gets a flash of every single time he got half-hard just from watching Charles punch a bag or bend over in yoga. All those times he’s daydreamed of just walking up to Charles and taking his mouth in a hard, brutal kiss in the middle of the gym have finally materialised, except that there’s nothing hard and brutal about this. It’s soft and slow and tender, and Charles’s hand has wrapped around the back of Erik’s neck, a warm brand against his nape.

Then Charles parts his lips, and suddenly the kiss turns deep and wet and urgent, Charles tasting of the wine earlier and something minty. His hand is stroking Erik’s nape now, his fingers blunt and firm, and Erik can’t help moaning as they start raking through the hair on the back of his head. Charles’ other hand is still warm on his waist, and Erik allows himself to indulge in his biggest wish: he slides his hands down Charles’ back, before happily grabbing at Charles’ firm, plush ass and earning himself a muffled moan from Charles.

They pull apart for breath, but once Erik gets a glimpse of Charles - his kiss-bruised lips, his eyes now almost all pupil, his brow creased in want, hair tousled by Erik’s hands - Erik dives back in immediately to claim that sweet mouth, pushing Charles up against the mirror. Charles happily goes, the hand on Erik’s waist dipping down to tuck itself beneath his waistband, and Erik helps him by undoing the button and zip with his power. Charles chuckles into the kiss, and Erik takes this opportunity to suck on that luscious bottom lip. Fuck, he wants to ruin Charles completely.

His plan to do so is cheerfully derailed when Charles’ errant hand wanders down deeper into the open gap of Erik’s khakis, and Erik lets out a gasp as Charles’ fingers wrap around his half-hard cock. The way Charles’ eyes widen is gratifying. “God, you’re _huge_.”

“Your turn,” Erik grits out, using his ability to undo Charles’ jeans, and Charles’ breath stutters when Erik slides his hand into Charles’ boxer-briefs and start stroking him to full hardness. It’s always a little odd, adjusting to someone with a foreskin, but Charles must like what Erik’s doing because he’s making these soft little, “oh” noises that make Erik want to hitch his legs up and fuck him against the mirror, wants to see Charles completely unravel under him.

“C’mon Erik,” Charles is panting against his mouth, his breath warming Erik’s face as his strokes start to speed up. The twins are still talking outside, and Erik is torn between wanting to hump Charles into the mirror, or pulling away to safety. Then Charles tugs on his hair, and Erik buries his face against Charles’ fair throat, moaning as Charles’ hand turns slick with precome. In revenge, Erik starts nuzzling at the crook where Charles’ neck meets his shoulder, then he nips and bites at that sweet little spot, making Charles’ moan so loudly that he covers Charles’ mouth with his other hand to gag him.

Even with the impromptu gag Erik can hear Charles’ aborted attempts of “Erik, Erik,” and Erik sucks a deep mark in Charles’ neck, thrusting up a few times into Charles’ firm hand before he spurts all over Charles’ fingers, his moan muffled by Charles’ neck. Charles tips his head back in pleasure, lasting only another minute before stripes of come land all over Erik’s hand and Charles’ jeans, both of them panting hotly as they press their foreheads together. Charles looks as ruined as the best of Erik’s fantasies, even if they’re both still fully clothed. The way he’s staring at Erik, sated and appreciative, makes Erik stroke his ruffled hair with his clean hand. Fuck, they’re both filthy. It’s immensely satisfying.

_I’ve wanted to do that for ages_ , he hears Charles’ voice, low and intimate. But through his post-orgasmic haze, something is niggling urgently at Erik’s brain before he suddenly realises what it is. _Oh Erik, so bloody beautiful._

Charles’ lips have not moved at all.


End file.
